To Go To Hell
by Rabby
Summary: Sirius knows he's done something terrible; he's awaiting his judgement. But first, he has to relive the memories of what he did. Sirius' POV - SB/RL
1. Awaiting Judgement

To Go To Hell

Rabby

Warnings: I'm not really going to get into this, because it's rated R and you should use your own discretion. However, if you don't like m/m slash, I wouldn't recommend it. 

Disclaimer: I don't own HP. I'd do a lot of stupid things if I did, like say I'd write 100,000,002 books and only write a few and then claim fanfics as being my doing. Instead, I pretend I know how to write, and draw doujinshi. But you know what? I don't! ^_^ No obligations!

A/N: Just a note: I didn't really know what to put this as for genre, so I just stuck it in as Angst. From the first two chapters, you can pretty much make out what it's going to be about, so please tell me if you think I should change the genre to something more appropriate. Thanks!

In truth, it's only been a couple of weeks since it all happened… Well, since it all came to an end, anyway. There was the first week, where I didn't really know who I was anymore or what had happened, and I was completely beyond much of anything. Then there was this last week where I have been calm, composed, and enjoying the freedom of my thoughts. Since they pulled the details and memories of the related events from me and allowed them to accumulate in the pensieve that they would use to review the evidence. But today is the day they announce their decision. Whether or not to send me back to Azkaban. 

I'm nervous _now_, of course. Since I still know what happened (I just don't have to relive the events in my mind for the time being), I'm pretty convinced that my chances of avoiding punishment are slim. I'm not quite sure which I'm afraid of more, though. The moment they make me take back those memories or going back to prison where I'll be forced to replay them all the time, and know that, this time, I _am_ guilty of the charges against me. And knowing that the Dementors won't be fooled by the same trick a second time, there wouldn't be any way of getting out of there even if I wanted to. But even I know that what I did merits imprisonment.

Harry came to see me once, right after it happened. Of course, he didn't know what had taken place at the time. When he did, he just stared blankly at me, as if I had betrayed every trust he'd ever had in me – which was, of course, true. But he didn't say anything, either, which left no room for argument. (And as there was no argument to be made, it felt even worse.)

Dumbledore's been to see me a few times also, although he's by far my most frequent visitor. He comes and tries to speak for me and helped me understand just what had happened during that first week. Tried to set my mind at ease. It worked for about one day, but I dreamed about it, and it all fell apart again and I didn't want to speak to him any more. He still visits now and then, though, and tells me of the efforts he's made to convince the jury that I am not to be blamed. But I'm positive I am, and I really don't want to hear how he's sure I've got a chance.

Remus hasn't spoken to anyone, although everyone's been to see him. Except me. I wasn't allowed; I've been confined, and no one is at all surprised. Remus hasn't acknowledged anyone's presence, or heard a word they said. Remus doesn't want to talk about it. Remus doesn't have to.

I do. But I can't.

I want to. But I can't.

That's why it was Dumbledore's idea to extract the memories with the pensieve and allow them themselves to be judged. I'm not so sure, though, that that would help in the least. If anything, I, myself, am convinced that it'll work against me. But since I'm not sure Dumbledore ever really knew the story of what happened as well as he thought he did, he wouldn't know. Or else he's sure he can use it to work in my favour, by twisting it with those convincing words and tones he's mastered, but, really, who would want to listen to him?

The time is drawing nearer when they'll send me back those memories, though, and then, soon after, deliver their verdict. And I'm shaking. They can sentence me to death, to Azkaban, to whatever Hell they choose, but I do _not_ want those memories back in my head.


	2. First Punishment

I sat there, shivering with nervousness and cold, for what felt like hours, but the moment they opened the door, it felt as if only minutes had passed. Dumbledore leads the way in; there, as he'd promised, to help comfort me as it happens – he's much too kind, considering. First they restrain me in a chair, so that the only part of me that I can move properly is my head. Dumbledore stands next to me and touches my hand, though it has little of the soothing effect I'd like. His are as cold and clammy as mine, although his eyes try to betray them with their twinkling, friendly nature. Then they bring in the pensieve and I panic.

I jerk my chair away from its direction with all the effort I can muster, and try to throw it back. If I should fall, I don't care. If I should snap my neck, I don't care. I don't want to return to _that_ – not now, not ever. But someone's grabbed the chair, and it's all I can do to try and squirm away. For a brief moment, my eyes meet someone else's. Harry's. Why he wants to see this, I don't know, but he's here nonetheless. We keep eye contact for only that one moment, though, before someone steps before me. Holding _it_. Again, I'm frantic, shouting something, pleading something, until something wraps itself around my mouth and keeps the sound in. It's right under my nose now, and I shut my eyes tight against looking into the swirling contents. They can't – they can't make me…

But they do. A hand is forcing my head down, much as I'm pushing against it. Down, further, further. They _can't_ make me! I can't let them!!

With one almighty shove, I throw my head back again and nearly crush that damned hand between my skull and the head of the chair. If anything, it bought me a moment, but not enough. I just see Dumbledore's creased face as I look to him for help and then mine is smashed down again. There. They did it. They _made_ me. I feel like I'm _drowning_…

I feel suddenly at peace about something. My body's relaxed, and my thoughts have little strength anymore. I'm quickly settling into me new – _old_ – self. There's nothing more I can do to fight against it; I'm back in my body of only a few months passed – somehow. I suppose it's easier to return a memory to a person through the first-person memory, not, as a third-person, looking in. There's nothing more that can help it, except to play it through to the end, and hope it's not actually as horrible as I'd thought it was. There is no Dumbledore that can try to help me now. No Harry to stare wonderingly at me and wonder what it is I'm seeing, although I don't doubt that he is still watching from… somewhere…

_Harry_…

And then thought seemed to vanish. I gave over to the memory.

I heard his voice again and nearly jumped out of my skin. Not because the "new" me hasn't heard it in weeks, but because of what he was asking.

"What?" I asked, incredulous.

"I asked, 'Do you love me'?" he replied, looking most agitated, and still avoiding my eyes. I noted that his face was pink from the embarrassment of having to not only ask me outright, but to ask twice.

"Remus…"

"Sirius, I need to know."

AN: Er… Do I continue…? (I probably will, but I'm just not positive… ;_;)


End file.
